


All That I Ever Was

by bybibucky



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Anxiety, Blood, Blood and Injury, Brooklyn, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon-Typical Violence, Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Injuries, Oral Sex, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Prostitution, Protective Bucky Barnes, Reader-Insert, Serious Injuries, Sex, Song Lyrics, Threats of Violence, Vaginal Sex, Violence, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, but in a good way, their relationship is a lil toxic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27817225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bybibucky/pseuds/bybibucky
Summary: Sometimes, nothing can be more daunting than the vast space of your own obscured mind.Bucky finds you at a point in his life where he hasn't even found himself. Maybe you can help each other.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 16
Kudos: 43





	1. We Do It All – Everything – on Our Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is your knight in shining armor (the metal arm). But you don't know that yet.

In a way, he should have seen this coming. Wandering around New York City, trying to relearn the ins and outs of the place, he was bound to run across something he wasn’t supposed to see. Usually, he was good at ignoring things that didn’t concern him, and he was by no means a vigilante of any sort, but that helpless, muffled scream that perked up his ears wasn’t anything to walk away from.

“ _Please_.” The way just that simple word held so much fear was enough to make him grind his teeth together. Someone was in danger, helpless in the hands of a bad person, that much he knew and he also knew that, somewhere deep down, even though he didn’t want to allow himself to admit it, there was a part of him that was better. Maybe, this would take him a step further to rediscovering that person he had once been.

So, he briefly checked whether his gloves were still in place, and then walked towards the noise all the way down the alley. Every step made your whimpering that much easier to discern, his heightened senses always on high alert, and he could make out the unmistakable sound of fruitless struggling. When he saw you, he knew for sure.

“Stop fucking trying to escape.” The man, large but not muscular, had one hand tightly fisted in the fabric of your flimsy dress, one on the back of your head, pushing it against the rugged brick wall. Bucky knew from experience that it would leave a burning mark on your skin and he already wanted your attacker to feel the tenfold of that sharp pain.

Your voice was muffled against the stone when you tried to beg again. It wouldn’t go anywhere, and Bucky decided to make himself known. Taking both you and the attacker by surprise, he grabbed the latter by his collar, yanking him backward. He hadn’t even used his metal arm, but the man still lost his footing and tumbled to the ground. _Weak_. Bucky followed suit and you could do nothing but watch. He straddled the guy’s legs to keep him still and, this time, used both hands punch to him black and blue, using some of his hidden fury that always seemed to be there to really make it hurt. But contrary to what everyone he knew thought, he was able to stop himself before he’d commit another murder. Watching his victim for a second, making sure that he’d stay down, he looked up to see you cowered against the wall, hands cradled to your chest, wide eyes leaking tears that had to sting in the fresh cuts on your cheek. You were favoring your right foot.

He stood up, hands raised to show he wouldn’t hurt you, and waited for you to react. He’d anticipated for you to scream or run away, to tell him he’d made a mistake, but what he hadn’t seen coming was for you to just, well, collapse. Bucky was just barely fast enough to catch you from where he had stood. You were limp in his arms, helpless, and he was looking around as if the dark alley had answers, running his mind to figure out what to do with you now.

:::::

You woke up on a mattress. Not a bed, but a mattress. And that alone made you sit up way too quickly, the blood rush forcing out a hiss between your teeth. But you pushed it aside, fingers rubbing your temples, and took in your surroundings. None of the things you saw belonged to either you or your roommates. Not any of the books scattered around the tiny apartment, not the piles of clothes on the floor, some neat, some carelessly dumped there, and not the small kitchen counter with the dirty dishes in the sink. The windows were covered by thick black fabric, basking the place in darkness which was only broken by the one window that didn’t have a makeshift curtain, and this told you it was already morning. Where the fuck were you?

“You’re awake,” came a deep voice from a corner of the room and you almost jumped out of your skin. Moving your hands to cover yourself on instinct, you noticed that someone had put a sweater on you.

“You were shivering,” was all the explanation you got and you chose to be okay with that. You were still wearing your dress and there wasn’t that unmistakable feeling between your legs that you weren’t wearing any panties. So he probably hadn’t raped you.

And then the memory came back. The way Dylan had pushed you against the wall, how he had threatened to kill you, once again, how his fingers had dug into your skin. You shook your head to clear it. “Where am I?” This guy had apparently saved you from Dylan but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t dangerous himself.

“My apartment.” He slowly moved out of his corner and when you finally saw him, your first thought was that he was absolutely gorgeous. The kind of guy you used to joke about with your friends that you would let him do anything to you. Besides the fact that he could use a shave and maybe a different outfit, he was beautiful.

“I brought you here when you passed out,” he said, “I don’t know where you live.”

The more he spoke the more it became clear that he didn’t converse with strangers very often. The pauses in between his sentences he used to figure out what to say next, and his voice was deep but not loud like you were used to. He might have beaten Dylan to a pulp but, from what you knew, he hadn’t laid a harming finger on you. You nodded.

“Thank you.”

The man flinched. You didn’t know what to do with that.

He changed the subject. “Are you hungry?” he asked, “I think I have something in the fridge.” And he pointed towards the old, crammed kitchen space.

You shook your head. “No, thank you.”

“Water?” He looked weirdly hopeful for a yes and you realized he probably didn’t get a lot of guests.

You nodded and the man hurried to the small kitchen. He emerged with a bottle of water that he handed you with a gloved hand. You chose not to ask. Thanking him again, you took it and screwed off the cap. The seal was still in place so you were sure he wasn’t trying to poison you. He watched intently as you brought the bottle to your lips and, finally realizing how parched you were, gulped down half of the liquid in seconds.

“Okay?” he asked and you nodded.

Something about his careful, almost shy demeanor made you feel like he was nothing like any other man you had met. While clearly being strong – you had watched his strength in person and even all the layers he wore couldn’t hide his muscular build – it hadn’t made him cocky. It was a nice change.

“Are you in pain?” he piped up again, softly and in the same deep rumble you had sort of gotten used to already.

You wanted to shake your head once more, but now that your adrenaline had subsided, you were starting to feel the events of the night. “A little.” There was no saying what he would do with that response and you wouldn’t have thought that you’d get to watch him ball his hands to tight fists by his sides before he walked out to a room you deduced must have been the bathroom. When he came back, the small first aid kid was comically tiny in his gloved hands that held it out to you. You had no idea what to do with it.

He gestured toward the bed, silently asking for permission to sit. You scooched over a little to give him more space on the small mattress. Silently, he got to work. Opening up the plastic box, he rummaged through its contents for some disinfectant spray that he applied on a cotton swab.

“This’ll probably sting,” he warned, before he carefully began to dab the area around the cuts on your face. You winced because you couldn’t help it, it really did sting.

“Sorry,” he mumbled but you shook your head.

“It’s not your fault.”

He was silent again, after you had spoken, and neither of you could deny the tension in your words. You suddenly felt the need to talk about it.

“Thank you for stepping in,” you said. He was avoiding your eyes, but you couldn’t keep yours off of him. Up close, he was even more beautiful, although his face was unreadable. The useless, almost frowning expression told you nothing except that he was probably concentrating. You didn’t know him well enough to place his behavior. But for some reason, and you found yourself scared of the answer, you weren’t scared of him. “He always threatens me,” you continued, “but this time I really thought he was going to kill me.” It was the truth. Last night had not been the first time Dylan had cornered you like this, and it hadn’t been the only time you had needed to be saved. Only the first time someone had actually intervened.

“This is going to bruise,” the man in front of you informed you, and you scoffed bitterly.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

His frown deepened. “Why would anyone hurt you?”

That made you laugh. “Isn’t it obvious?” you asked, “that was my pimp. I’m a prostitute.”

He was taken aback, putting down the cotton swab. He knew about prostitutes. It wasn’t some new twenty-first century invention, but he had never met one. Not that he knew of. “Oh,” he said.

“You seriously didn’t realize?”

He shook his head, and suddenly, he looked so innocent. When he had first seen you, you had been wearing nothing but a thin negligée, panties, and heels, and that in mid-November air. Now, the only difference was the lack of heels that he had probably taken off for you and the additional sweater. This man was a puzzle to you.

“Do you like what you do?” he asked then, and instantly realized what he had said. “No, sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”

You smiled. “It’s no big deal,” you assured him, “I did at first. It felt so empowering. But the years went by and this guy – the one in the alley – took me under his wing and he turned out to be real asshole.”

The man nodded, clearly deeply in thought at your words, but you didn’t want the pity.

“What’s your name?” you asked to change the subject but it didn’t seem to be the right one.

His eyes widened just barely, mouth open like a fish. “I’m not sure,” he confessed, and you were about to ask what the hell that meant, when he added, somewhat unsurely, “Bucky.”

That certainly had been weird but you weren’t perfect either. “I’m Y/N,” you replied, and it felt odd to have your real name on your tongue for once. These days, you only ever introduced yourself by your stage name.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” It was a simple line to portray politeness and it felt a little forced but with good intentions nonetheless. “Does anything else hurt?”

It did. Your whole body ached, in fact, but his little first aid kit wouldn’t be able to help with that. So you shook your head.

Bucky narrowed his eyes, briefly scanning your body. “Your foot,” he said, “and I’m guessing you might have a bruised rib or two.”

You gasped just barely, suddenly found out. No one had ever been this observant.

He shrugged. “I saw the foot thing in the alley and you’re taking really shallow breaths.”

You hadn’t even noticed.

“I can take a look to make sure nothing is broken, if you want.” He said it carefully, making sure he didn’t seem like a pervert. “Your foot.”

It hadn’t been the first time you’d had to lick your own wounds but you had no medical experience, he probably knew more than you. “Sure.” You pushed the thin blanket off your legs and held out your right foot. Brows knitted in concentration, he gently ran his hands across your calf down to your toes, stopping to apply pressure at certain points, waiting for you to wince or whimper. He placed his hand on the back of your heel, the other against the ball of your foot, rotating your ankle slightly. On instinct, because that really fucking hurt, your tried to pull your leg from his grasp and he let you.

“Sprain,” he deduced, before carding through the first aid kit again. He dug out a bandage of some sort and looked at you questioningly, silently asking for permission to touch you again.

You extended your leg toward him once more, and felt something weird swell in your chest that wasn’t the pain coming from your ribs. This man respected you. You observed as he began to bind your foot starting at your toes, the stretchy fabric putting a relieving pressure against the pain.

“Too tight?” he asked and you shook your head. Bucky snapped off the band with his teeth before tugging the end under the wraps.

“Thank you.”

He gave you a curt nod, standing up. From your low vantage point, you watched as he moved around the room, gathering some books and a few shirts from the neat pile. Wordlessly, he arranged them in a tower beside the mattress, and you were confused until he carefully lifted your leg and placed it on top.

You couldn’t help but feel bad for him. This man was so… kind. Each movement deliberately thought through, each word chosen with care, you found yourself wondering why he was alone. It was obvious that he didn’t spend much time with other people, even though you thought he deserved to. What had happened to him?

“Would you like to take a shower?”

The question surprised you. A shower hadn’t really crossed your mind, but now that he had mentioned it, you started yearning for one.

“Only if it’s not too much,” you said and Bucky’s eye twitched.

But he walked over and stretched out his arms, offering you help. You took them gladly, your small hands almost getting lost in the large leather gloves as he pulled you to your feet. Instantly, you shifted your weight onto your good foot.

“Can you walk?”

You didn’t like the thought of him carrying you again, so you proceeded an awkward wobbling dance towards the bathroom, leaning on Bucky’s forearm for support. It must have looked ridiculous but luckily, his apartment was tiny, so it didn’t take you too long to get there. Bucky leaned you against the wall like a broomstick, briefly gesturing for you stay put, before he disappeared into the living room and reemerged with a plastic stool.

You were ready to cry at the thoughtfulness, the small gesture bigger to you than anything that had happened in your life before last night. Unbelievable, how people like this actually still existed. To you, it seemed like that generation had lived a hundred years ago.

“Clever,” you admitted, “thanks.”

Giving you a quick run-down of the shower settings, offering you everything in his supply of cleaning products, which literally only was a bar of soap, but you’d make do, he handed you a rather rugged towel that you gratefully accepted. Why he was being so nice to you, you couldn’t wrap your head around.

He left you to your own devices, then, softly closing the bathroom door behind himself. You, in turn, fumbled around with the settings on the shower until you liked the temperature enough. Eager to get under the stream, your clothes were shed in a hurry, though only as quickly as possible with your injuries. You were glad that Bucky didn’t appear to have a mirror anywhere in the apartment, meaning you didn’t have to look at yourself. The extend of the bruises, you imagined, wasn’t something you wanted on your mind. You hoped Bucky wouldn’t see.

The hot water loosened your tense muscles instantly. A blissful sigh left your lips like it had been aching to for ages, and you relaxed against the back of the chair. You had needed this desperately. You couldn’t remember the last time you had taken a hot shower. This was a luxury you didn’t feel like you deserved.

Forcing yourself to keep the whole ordeal as short possible – you didn’t want to strain your gifted resourced by any means – you went through a quick cleaning routine. The truth was, you were dreading the moment you’d have to leave this place. Yes, it was cluttered, undecorated, and frankly a little dusty, but the company was nice and you didn’t expect any respect relative to the one you were receiving now to be there once you said goodbye to Bucky. You lathered yourself up with the soap quickly, mindful of the bruises and keeping your injured foot away from the water. It was a difficult task but you didn’t want Bucky to have to patch you up again. Once was definitely too much already. The soap didn’t do a lot for your hair, but clean was clean.

After you had dried yourself off with the towel, you realized that you would have to put your old clothes back on. Or maybe you didn’t.

With a soft knock, Bucky squeezed a set of folded somethings through a tiny crack in the door. You took it, thanking him. Unfolding the garments, you discovered he had brought an arrangement of sweatpants, shirts, and boxer briefs. Grateful for not needing to wear your panties again, you chose the pair of underwear that looked the smallest, otherwise opting for a set of plain sweatpants and a sweatshirt. All of it was comically large on you, but so very comfortable. You couldn’t remember the last time you had felt this at ease. It was a stark difference to your work uniform.

Bare-footed, you tiptoed – ignoring the pain in your ankle – back to the rest of the apartment, finding Bucky by the sink.

Without facing you, he asked, “okay?”

You nodded, before realizing that he couldn’t see you. “I really needed that, thank you.”

He didn’t respond further, busy cleaning the dishes. Oddly enough, he still wore the gloves and that was weird enough for you to ask.

“What’s with the gloves?”

Bucky tensed barely, but you noticed. He shrugged.

“I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about it?” you asked. “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

And Bucky relaxed. So it was a touchy subject. That was fine. He hadn’t pushed the topic of your profession once he’d realized you were uncomfortable with it. It was only respectful to treat him the same. Besides, it really was none of your business.

“Hungry?” he asked, this time, turning around. He had put the last plate on a folded dish towel next to the sink, letting it dry.

You were about to decline once more, but your growling stomach stole the show. Both of you breathed out a shy laugh. Most of the tension caused by the foreign nature of your relationship dissipated then, and something else, something slight and easy settled in its place.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Bucky teased, though somewhat still careful that any word of his was in danger of being the wrong one. You wondered whether he had always been this way, or if someone had hurt him. He opened the fridge. “I have bread and, uh, eggs. Those should still be good.” The inside of this fridge resembled the décor in his apartment. Scarce and only the bare necessities.

“Wait,” he said, taking in your appearance, and suddenly gasped, “why are you standing?” He took one large step and was directly in front of you. “May I?” he asked, and even though you didn’t know what he was talking about, you nodded.

Bucky, then, wiped his hands on his worn jeans and sneaked them under your armpit, lifting you gently but efficiently so you were sat on the counter top. He nodded, apparently satisfied, and brought his attention to the stove to make scrambled eggs.

You watched every move. The way he broke the eggshells with a single tap against the side of the small pan, how he placed the spatula so it was exactly parallel with the edge of the stove, and how he stared down at the cooking meal, as if that would make it go faster.

He stuffed two untoasted slices of bread with the scrambled eggs before handing you the plate. Bucky didn’t have a dining table, so he stood opposite you as you both ate right there in the middle of the kitchen area, your legs dangling off the counter top. It felt strangely intimate, like you had been doing this for years, eating in a comfortable silence. To your surprise, the sandwich was quite delicious, too, given his limited resources. When you told him so, Bucky beamed a shy smile that warmed your heart.

“It’s not much, I know,” he said but you had to disagree. The gesture alone was worth more than any fancy meal you had ever eaten.

Once you were finished and Bucky had taken the empty plate from you, he spoke again. “Your phone rang while you were in the shower.” He was avoiding your eyes.

“Oh, thanks. I should probably check that.” But you were kind of stuck on the counter. “Could you, um…” You trailed off, hoping he would get what you meant.

Your idea had been for him to get your phone from the bed, but you let out a surprised shriek when Bucky sneaked his arm under your legs, the other around your back and carried you over there. Scared he would drop you, you clutched his shoulders, but he walked as if you weighed nothing.

He went down on one knee, setting you onto the mattress carefully, before he stood up. “I’ll, uh, I’ll give you some privacy,” he said, awkwardly looking around the apartment for a place where he’d be out of earshot. When you saw him glance toward the bathroom, you put an end to it.

“Wanna sit with me?” you asked, patting the space on your right.

Not hesitating, and you decided to jot that down as some sort of progress between the two of you, he pushed the scrunched-up blanket away, plopping down. You bounced slightly from the force of it, and found yourself giggling.

“Okay,” you said, “give me a sec.” One look at your phone, however, dampened your improved mood drastically. The cracked screen was littered with dozens of missed calls, hundreds of furious text messages. You were in big trouble. Sighing deeply, you gathered enough courage to call Dylan back.

“Were _the fuck_ are you?” came his voice screaming through the speaker right after the first ring, “you have clients waiting for you! If you’re brave enough to come back, you better have your affairs in order because I am going to fucking kill you! You little bitch! I should have kicked your head in yesterday when I had the chance!” After that, you toned out his words. You’d heard them before countless of times. But still, because you really were weak like he always told you, there were tears in the corners of your eyes, threatening to fall any second. What if this time, he’d be true to his word?

You’d completely forgotten about Bucky, who still sat next to you, able to hear everything Dylan yelled at the other end of the line. But he reminded you when he reached out to pull your phone from your grasp. Your breath hitched, suddenly looking at him, and from the force of the movement, a tear quickly rolled down your cheek.

“You can’t go back there,” he said, and his voice held something foreign that you couldn’t name.

You shook your head. He was right, but if there was any other way, you didn’t know it.

“He’ll hurt you again.”

You bit your lip, nodding. But if this was to be your fate, then so be it.

“Stay.”

There was a tiny gasp and it took you a second before you realized it had come from your own throat. “I couldn’t–“

“Please, don’t say no right away. Hear me out,” Bucky insisted, “I know this shitty apartment isn’t what you deserve, but I can make it better. I could get another chair or something. And I’m out most of the time anyway.” He paused. “But he _hurt you_. He’ll do it again and I–I can’t let that happen.”

“If I don’t go back, I won’t have any money.” This was ridiculous. You didn’t know each other and he was asking you to move in?

“Let’s make a deal,” Bucky said and he was the most energetic you’d ever seen him. Granted, he still was quiet and reserved, but he seemed genuinely determined. “You cook and maybe help me make this place livable and I let you stay and get us food and everything.”

“I can’t.” But Bucky, in a moment of bravery and probably desperation, grasped your hands.

“Y/N.” The word held everything from a plea to a promise, and something in his eyes told you he was trustworthy. So you yielded.

“Only until I can get something on my own,” you said pointedly, and Bucky nodded. Satisfied, he was back to his shy self and you wondered whether you’d get him to come out of his shell one day, whether you’d tear his walls down at some point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so it begins, my journey to publishing a full novel-length fic. I'm hella excited, are you?


	2. I Don't Know Where

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bucky update your sleeping arrangement.

Bucky slept on the floor. He had insisted, even though you had begged him to take the mattress, as you were already invading his, well, everything. But Bucky was a self-proclaimed gentleman, although he had never actually said it out loud. The way he acted, however, spoke for itself. Never had anyone been so careful around you, never so cautious, moving through the apartment like it was him who was the guest, not the other way around. It broke your heart, and at the same time, stitched it back together.

For the first two days of your little arrangement, you hobbled around the apartment from object to object, using them as leverage to get to the bathroom or the kitchen when Bucky wasn’t there to assist you. That was most of the time. True to his word, Bucky was out doing God knows what almost all day, leaving you to your own devices. It was almost like having a cat, you found. And the most cat-like thing he did was bring back souvenirs from his day in the streets. In his case, it wasn’t dead mice of course, but other things. One night, he brought you a pair of crutches, making your life a hell of a lot easier. This way, you didn’t need to depend on him to escort you through the apartment and it felt like the first step toward freedom, not that you were trapped here in any way.

After you had accepted his offer, he had gone out and returned hours later with a handful of groceries. You had turned the noodles and tomatoes into pasta with some sort of makeshift sauce, which in reality consisted only of tomatoes, water, and salt. It hadn’t been the best thing you had ever cooked, but Bucky had wolfed it down like it had been his first meal in months. If it weren’t for the undeniable muscle he packed, you would have thought that it actually had been.

Something was bound to go wrong one way or another, and Bucky had his first nightmare in your presence about a week in. You woke up from slight whimpering and turned over on the mattress, brushing it off as some sort of animal outside. It grew louder then, changing from almost high-pitched moans of pain into actual screaming. Gut-wrenching, almost making your spine ache from the intensity of it, you realized it was coming from Bucky’s corner of the room. Sitting up, blanket long-forgotten wrapped around your middle, you helplessly watched as he wreathed and coiled on his little arrangement of sweaters on the floor, wailing as if he was being brutally murdered right in front of you. There was no one else in the room, however, and it dawned on you that maybe, he needed  _ your _ help.

Cautiously, you limped toward him, opting to leave the crutches be for the short way, and knelt next to him. You had no idea what to do. He needed to wake up for sure, but you didn’t know how. Looking at him thrash there on the hardwood flooring, no doubt bruising himself, you wanted to bring an end to it, so you just barely settled your hand on Bucky’s shoulder. The next second, your body was slammed backward, hitting the floor harshly, a large hand wrapped around your throat in a gloved death grip. There was no way you would be able to breathe against the fingers on your windpipe, and even if, your lungs were empty in shock.

He wouldn’t let go, not even when your hands clutched at his left arm he used for leverage against your throat, not even when you kicked your legs beneath him, not even when, in an act of desperation, your fingernails scratched his face. His eyes were dead, motionlessly staring at the floorboards behind your head, and you began to cry. Bucky must have been dreaming, he must have. There was no way the kind man you had gotten to know was capable of killing you with a simple flick of his wrist.

“ _ Please _ ,” you choked out, one last measure to get him to wake up, and it worked. As quickly as he had thrown you on the floor, he let go and escaped to the bathroom, slamming the door shut, locking it. You were left gasping on all fours, desperately trying to force air into your lungs. There was clattering to be heard from the other side of the door, and something shattered. Another scream came from Bucky, and you made yourself scud over there, moving on your hands and knees, your sore ankle keeping you on the ground.

“Bucky?” You hesitantly knocked against the bottom of the door, sitting opposite from it. The pain in your throat only got worse when you tried to cough it away.

In response, there was more rattling and something that sounded like Bucky pacing back and forth, barefoot heals thumping against the floor tiles. You could hear incoherent mumbling that bordered on yelling.

“Bucky.” You knocked again, hoping to get his attention. From the sounds of it, you were afraid he was hurting himself in some way. “Please.”

“No!”

You winced from the tone of his voice, clearly distressed. “Don’t make me kick down the door.”

That made Bucky laugh somehow, bitterly, humorlessly. “I have decades of deathly reflexes on my side, you wouldn’t survive it.”

You gulped, afraid, but knowing he was lying nonetheless. One thing you had learned about him thus far was that he thought of himself as somewhat of a monster. You didn’t know why but you knew it wasn’t right. “If you wanted to hurt me, you would have already done it.”

The door flew open, making you fall back on your elbows in surprise. He simply stepped over you, not giving you even a shred of a glance. Once he was all the way at the other side of the room, he turned to you. “I  _ did _ hurt you!” And he held up that deliberate distance so he wouldn’t again.

“You were having a nightmare!” The soreness of your throat kept you from matching his volume, and you croaked the words out rather than saying them.

“I was trying to kill you.”

You paused. He had been trying to kill you, indeed. But not actually. If he had actually wanted to kill you, you would be dead on the ground right where he stood now. He had stopped himself. “No, you weren’t. I was trying to wake you and you were just trying to defend yourself.”

Bucky flared up in anger even more, this time, at you. “Are you suggesting it was  _ your _ fault?” He stepped toward where you were still sitting by the bathroom. “You were helping me. It was my hand around your throat. I was the one–“ He brought his hands to his head, curling them to fists in his own hair. “–I felt your pulse weaken, I–I tried to… Oh, God!” Pulling harshly at his roots, he was punishing himself.

“Bucky, stop!” You reached out for him, trying to catch his attention, knowing that, if you were to stand up right now, you would fail. “Please, stop.”

He shook his head vehemently, tighter fists pulling harsher.

You were about to crawl to him, and he suddenly looked up. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he was crying. He then quickly, as if through one motion only, gathered his shoes and another jacket before he was out the door, and you were left there by yourself, wondering what the hell had just happened.

:::::

He returned hours later when the night had already turned to morning, then noon, and during that time, you had only moved from the bathroom doorway to the mattress. At some point, you had started crying, the worry about where he was and what he was doing keeping you painfully awake. There was no way for you to go after him. You didn’t know where he had gone, when he would be back, what he would be like once he returned. Would he kick you out?

The front door swung open, taking you by surprise. He emerged a moment later, hands clutched to an array of plastic bags. Bucky plopped them down in the middle of the room, looking at you expectantly as if you knew what to do with them. When you didn’t move, he spoke.

“I brought this,” he said and that was all there was to it.

“Okay?” You didn’t know what else to reply. In a way, he really was like a cat, dropping things in front of you as some form of gifts.

“Don’t you want it?” His wide eyes resembled those of a child, glistening with good-natured hope.

“I don’t know what it is.”

“Clothes.”

You nodded, then, wanting to put him out of his misery, although you didn’t understand it. He let out a quiet breath, somewhat relieved, and carried the bags to you. Rummaging through them, you found a variety of different things.

“I tried to get the necessities,” he explained shyly, watching you inspect the garments one by one. It really was mostly basic stuff, like shirts and jeans, some sweaters, some jackets. You raised an eyebrow at the countless pairs of underwear, some panties with matching bras and bralettes, some without.

He shrugged. “I didn’t know what you liked,” Bucky said, “I can take back what you don’t want to keep.”

“Where did you get all of this?”

He shrugged again, apparently wanting to keep his secrets. “I didn’t steal it, I promise.”

“I believe you.” You would have to figure out which things to keep, but right now, you were too tired to try them all on. “Thank you, Bucky, truly. But you didn’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I did,” he said quietly, “I hurt you.”

Your heart broke. He was beating himself up so much for something that hadn’t even been in his hands. His good side, the Bucky you had gotten to know, hadn’t been the one in charge at that moment. “It’s okay,” you said, knowing if you told him that it hadn’t been his fault, he would reject you again.

He nodded, forcing himself to accept that you accepted him. It was a difficult task, but worth it. Over the few short days that he had spent with you, he had gotten attached. That was strictly against his very nature, but he couldn’t help himself. You brought so much light.

“Will you lie with me?” The question took him by surprise. Surely, you wanted as much physical distance between you as you could. The danger of him close enough to harm you must have been too great.

He moved to shake his head but you were quicker. “I trust you.”

Truth was, you were scared, you couldn’t deny that, but you also couldn’t let him beat himself up more than he already did. And on top of that, in the last few years, you had come to stop valuing your life as much as you probably should. You knew it wasn’t right, but that’s the way it was.

You fluffed up the pillow, setting it in the middle at the top of the mattress. Bucky cautiously walked up to where you sat, unintentionally towering above you like a skyscraper. He began to undress. If you could call it that. He toed off his shoes, placing them neatly by the foot of the makeshift bed, and only took off his heavy jacket. The rest, socks, jeans, and whatever it was contained in the layers on his upper body, he kept on as he slowly slid onto the bed next to you.

Even with how tiny the mattress actually was – it couldn’t have been more than a twin size – there wasn’t an inch of your bodies that touched. You couldn’t explain how he managed that without half of him dangling off the edge. Although, he was so tense, almost like one large piece of thick wood, that he couldn’t possibly  _ dangle _ .

“Is this okay?” you asked, scared he was gonna turn to stone in terror. You had wanted him to relax, not become even tenser.

He nodded but it was a lie.

“You don’t have to do this,” you assured him, tone soft and gentle like that of a kindergarten teacher, but you weren’t mocking him, “I can sleep on the floor tonight, I don’t mind.”

“No!” Bucky jumped, and almost fell off the mattress from the force of it. Then, he closed his eyes, preparing for his next words. “It’s just,” he said, and his own tone was barely above a whisper, “I can’t remember the last time I was so close to someone.”

Wow. That was the most honest thing you had heard him say up until this point. Every other word had somewhat sounded like a forced confession, spoken just for the sake of getting his meaning across efficiently. Never this.

“You’re scared?” you asked, and waited for Bucky to nod slightly, “tell me what I can do to make it better.”

“Just,” he sighed, “give me a minute.”

A minute quickly turned into another, and then another, until you lost track of how much time had passed. You hadn’t slept all night, and in the quiet of the room – ignoring the busy streets of Brooklyn – you found solace in just lying there. Enough to make your eyelids grow heavier and heavier with every moment that neither of you moved. Each of your steady breathings, Bucky’s and yours, alternating in random rhythms until they went in sync, made it difficult to stay awake. Bucky slightly gasped when sleep finally caught up with you, and your head slumped to the side, your nose just barely brushing his upper arm.

Besides the clinical movements when Bucky had patched you up, and his gentle aid when you needed to move around the apartment, this was the first time the two of you touched. To a normal person with a normal, trauma-less past that would never be able to comprehend what Bucky had been through, this was nothing. But to him, this was the biggest step towards normalcy, the biggest accomplishment he would be able to jot down in his journals later. He couldn’t move. Not like this, not when there was even the slightest possibility that you would wake up. For now, he wanted to relish in this, even though it was only your warm breath that he felt against the fabric of his shirt, and not even on his skin. Right there next to you, he even forgot that you were lying on his left.

:::::

When you woke up, Bucky still hadn’t really moved, but you had. While he was in the exact same place as hours before, you, in your sleep, had somehow climbed on top of him, and now lay sprawled across his chest. He, in turn, had stretched his arms out, one on your side of the mattress, one on the floor beside him, desperate measures not to touch you. Although panic had risen in his throat the moment he had been stirred awake by your movements hours ago, it now rested as an odd lump there, reminding him how fucked up in the head he actually was.

He had a beautiful, nice girl in his bed and all he could think about was  _ what if _ . Decades ago, no negative thought would have even had the chance to cross his mind, and he would have just relished in the intimacy. At least, his heart wasn’t beating as loudly anymore. When you had first placed your head on his chest, he had feared that the heavy thumping would wake you up. But it hadn’t.

No, what pulled out of your slumber was a random truck outside, honking furiously in the street. Bucky despised it immediately. Right when he was starting to somewhat settle in his situation, the scene was broken.

“Oh, sorry,” you mumbled, face swollen a little from your sleep, a tiny bead of drool gathered in the corner of your mouth. He found it adorable. You pushed yourself up, carrying your weight on your palms beside Bucky’s torso, and took in the scenery. “I must have moved,” you observed and Bucky almost laughed at the innocence. It was obvious to everyone in the room that you had ‘moved’.

“It’s fine,” he said and was surprised at the sleepy rumble in his own voice.

“No, you don’t have to lie,” you disagreed, “I always move in my sleep. My last boyfriend said it was super annoying.”

Bucky frowned. He had noticed your continuous journeys across his mattress at night, but he couldn’t find one thing wrong with it. Even if he was the mattress, it was actually kind of sweet.

“Anyway,” you sighed, sitting up entirely, “what time is it?”

He glanced around, trying to find the small alarm clock that was reliable only sometimes. “Nine something.”

“Oh wow, we slept for like, eight hours.” There was both a surprised and surprising smile on your lips. “But I have to say, I haven’t slept this well in about ten years. Even though I kind of violated you, sorry again.”

Bucky shook his head. To him, too, it had been the first actual rest he could remember. Usually, he stirred awake for anything and everyone that made some form of noise, his lifetimes of military training a constant setting in his mind. Not this time. “Me, too.”

You crunched your face in disbelief. “It doesn’t really look like you relaxed at all. You’re in the exact same spot as before.”

Surprisingly, he found it in him to make a joke. “I moved my arms.” A bad joke, no doubt, but you laughed anyway, even if lightly.

“No, this is ridiculous,” you decided, “I can’t live here for free and take up your bed as well. I’m kind of a shitty person, but deep down, I still have manners.”

“You’re not–“

“Nope, this is where you decide. Either you sleep on the mattress alone or you sleep on the mattress, only that I also sleep on the mattress.”

He thought it over for a moment. “What if I hurt you again?”

You shrugged. “We’ll keep a bucket of water by the bed and if you try to kill me again, I’ll dump it over your head.”

How you could be so nonchalant with the whole thing, Bucky would never understand. From where he was still lying on his back, he could perfectly see the dark, harsh lines on your throat where his fingers had tried to squeeze the life out of you. Less than a day ago, you had almost died because of him, and even now, your throat must have been hurting.

He decided to take a leap of faith. Trusting you came easier than he would have expected. “Share?” And the way you beamed at him was instantly worth it. 

:::::

It became a routine then, Bucky coming home after his day outside, sliding onto the mattress beside you. You were usually fast asleep when he got there, and he always took a moment to look at you when he shed the clothes he was ready to shed. It wasn’t much, but after everything, the several layers he put on each day – nowadays in the comfort of his locked bathroom, away from your innocent eyes – had become a sort of shield from the world. No one outside would get the chance to notice that one of his arms wasn’t one of his arms, and the gloves just helped that. He knew you found them odd, but he couldn’t bring himself to take them off. Not even the one on his right hand, because that would just make it obvious that his left one wasn’t real. Of course, there was the chance that people recognized him from his face alone, but he wasn’t thinking about that.

He always, always let you lie exactly the way you were, and only curled himself around your sleeping form. He wasn’t ready yet for you to wake up and change your mind, to tell him that you didn’t want him near you after all. You would move anyway, and at some point, give him enough space to lie comfortably. Bucky didn’t mind. As long as you were close, he was happy, he found, a shocking revelation.

You ended up on top of him every night, just like that first nap you had taken together, and when the weeks passed, Bucky grew brave enough to put an arm around you, the real one, of course. Shameless, probably because you didn’t know what you were doing, you would wrap your whole body around him, seeking him out in a way that Bucky didn’t understand. But the way you didn’t hate him, not even subconsciously, helped him respect himself, in a way.

He usually woke up before you, his body not used to getting actual rest, and forced himself to get used to the feeling of this kind of intimacy. Bucky’s mind, during his time at Hydra, had forged the unbreakable link between physical contact and pain. This, you, was difficult to believe in.

When you stirred awake yourself, and Bucky always waited for that, you took a moment to gather your thoughts, rub your eyes, and wish him a good morning. An endearing act, he found and, helplessly, wished you the same. It was the identical thing every day, which had developed the first night you had spent together like this. Bucky loved everything about it. Enough to even let himself enjoy it.

You slid out of bed, grabbing your crutches from the floor on your way to the kitchen. There, you glanced into the fridge, trying to figure out what to make for breakfast this morning. Bucky watched, guilty because he didn’t get up to help you, but you had forbidden him. The deal was that your cooking and cleaning was payment for getting to stay here, you had said, and Bucky was left to accept it.

“Eggs?” you asked him, head stuck almost all the way into the fridge, at least from his perspective. “But that’ll be the last of them, then.”

You weren’t demanding per se, but over the last few weeks, you had begun to unbend. Before Bucky left in the morning – you still didn’t know where he went – you told him what you needed him to get. Mostly groceries, but with each day, a painful reminder grew somewhere in the back of your brain, telling you that your period was coming up and you were already dreading that conversation.

“I’ll get some more today,” he said and moved to sit up. Because Bucky was yet to bring furniture for a dining area, you had opted to eat breakfast in bed, every meal, really. When you handed him the steaming plate, his mouth watered. Your twenty-first-century cooking skills were miles ahead of his.

The two of you ate in silence, and you finished years before him. You had realized that Bucky needed an obscene amount of food every meal, otherwise, his stomach would growl constantly. At first, he had claimed he wasn’t hungry, but a curt raise of an eyebrow had efficiently shut him up.

“Can I go out with you today?” you asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Bucky frowned. “Why?” he asked around a mouthful of scrambled eggs, and you almost grinned at how adorable it was, had it not been for something else on your mind.

You fumbled with your hands, nervous. “I kind of need some stuff from my old place.”

His face dropped. “You can’t go back there.” Mentally, he slapped himself for being so possessive when he had no right to.

“I know,” you insisted, suddenly close to crying, “but I left some important things there and I’m kinda scared that my roommates are going to sell them or something.” They were nice people, you even considered them friends to some degree, but you knew they were as desperate for money as you were, and they weren’t above abusing your friendship for groceries.

Bucky, all of a sudden, put his empty plate into yours, grabbing them both. He stood up and made his way to the sink. “Call your roommates and tell them to gather your things,” he said, grabbing his shoes and jacket, “I’ll be there later to pick them up.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Bucky, you don’t have to–“

But he had already disappeared into the bathroom, rummaging around the cupboards. When he came back, he had determination written all over his face. “Text me their address.” And then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *and there was only one bed*


	3. Would You Lie With Me and Just Forget The World?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky bares himself to you, as you do to him, in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a bit of smut in this chapter, as a lil warning

You waited. Not at all patiently, and instead busied yourself by cleaning every inch of the apartment you could reach without straining yourself too much. Bucky had most likely correctly assumed that you had bruised ribs, the pulsing pain with every movement a constant reminder. Specifically today, when you knew where he had gone off to. Should he run across Dylan, he was sure to be recognized. From their last encounter, you knew Bucky would be able to defend himself, but you still didn’t like the thought of him getting hurt in any way, not for you.

On your crutches, you slowly paced around the place, having wiped off the kitchen counter as that had been all there was to do for you, except for straightening the blanket on the bed. Bucky didn’t have a lot of stuff, you painfully realized once again, but didn’t have the mind to wonder why. Instead, it reminded you of your own things that Bucky was currently risking his life for. Well, not actually, but it certainly felt like that to you. You knew firsthand how dangerous Dylan was, and had the scars and bruises to prove it, but the idea that someone, that Bucky would actively go and seek that danger out was a sorrowful puzzle to you. Even though you cared deeply for some of the things at your old place, you were almost ready to discard them as unnecessary.

But then, you heard keys jiggling, clicking against the metal as the door got unlocked, and your heart was racing until you saw Bucky in the flesh. You hastily aimed to walk over to him, but your injured foot kept you in your spot. He was holding a large box.

“Bucky,” you said, making him look at you. You gasped when you saw that he sported an angry bruise on his jaw. But his expression was angrier.

“Fucking dickhead threw a punch at me,” he growled and you flinched.

“What happened?” Then, you did move towards him, using the crutches as an anchor not to throw yourself at him. You had no idea where this was coming from all of a sudden.

Bucky set down the box and walked back out into the hallway to get another. “That guy from last time was waiting for me when I got there,” he said, voice still angry but now somewhat lighter, “tried to make me bring you back. When I told him I wouldn’t, he took a swing at me.”

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” You were aghast. That was not at all how you’d wanted this to go.

“It’s nothing.” Bucky shrugged it off. “I punched him back, he passed out, I got your things.”

Your eyes widened but he didn’t give you time to react otherwise, stacking both boxes on top of each other and walking them towards the mattress. He then went to the kitchen, getting himself a glass of water. You took that as your cue to check the boxes.

Besides the fact that all your things had been thrown in there callously, your former roommates clearly indifferent about you moving out, everything seemed to be there, mostly unharmed. Both boxes were filled to the brim and you automatically wondered how the hell Bucky had been able to lift them at once. From the looks of it, he must have walked the whole way with them, he definitely didn’t go back and forth twice.

“Anything missing?” Bucky plopped down next to you, a glass of water in hand.

“Nope,” you said, shaking your head, “oh, no wait.” You mentally compared the numbers in your head. “Those little bitches stole some of my lingerie.” Over the years, you had collected a fair amount of it – came with the territory – and now, probably a third of it was missing.

“Your what?”

Your head snapped up, facing Bucky. “My lingerie.”

He looked painfully confused, and when you held up a random item in your collection, a rather simple blue string, his eyes widened deliberately.

“You know, part of the job?” You waved it around a little for emphasis, and his eyes involuntarily followed suit, glued to the garment.

He couldn’t help himself. “What the hell is that?”

You barked out a laugh. “A G-string.” You bit your lip, not wanting to be rude if he actually didn’t know what you were talking about. “Have you never seen one before?”

He shook his head, and with the given context, he almost looked like a child.

“It’s a type of underwear.”

“No, it’s not.” 

You laughed again, couldn’t stop yourself, really. “Bucky, are you kidding me?”

“I’ve never seen panties like that in my life,” he said, somehow determined to make you understand that what you were holding didn’t exist, “that doesn’t cover anything.”

You bit your lip again and cringed a little, holding back a smile, still trying to figure out whether he was joking or not. “Yeah, that’s kinda the point.” He didn’t look convinced, and you were left to wonder if the man in front of you, who even seemed to be older than you, was a virgin. “Have you never seen a girl in lingerie before?”

“Not like that,” he said.

You had an idea. It might turn out that you were overstepping a boundary by miles, but the thought of Bucky never having seen a set of lingerie on an actual person was too funny. “Do you want to?”

His eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

“Before you say no, remember that, out of most of the girls you’ll meet, I’m probably the most comfortable naked in front of strangers. It’s literally what I do for a living.”

Bucky was shyly quiet, almost back to his demeanor from when you had first met, but contrary to that day, he had somewhat gotten comfortable with you, so he was brave enough to nod.

You grinned from ear to ear. You might have come to hate your profession as a whole but the fact that you were undeniably sexy in lingerie would always persist. “Give me a second.” Grabbing your crutches, you skipped off toward the bathroom, one of your favorite sets clutched between your fingers. Shedding your clothes – the sweater belonged to Bucky – was a quick affair. Using the chair for leverage that was still by the shower from your first day – you still needed it – you slipped on each item with care, relishing in the feeling of putting your stage persona on again. You would leave her in the bathroom, though. When you stepped through the doorway, you were wholly yourself. In some way, the crutches kept you on the ground, literally and figuratively.

Bucky was a statue. When he had first brought you to his apartment, he had purposely kept you covered, averting his eyes whenever your shirt rode up your stomach, always bringing you long-sleeved, oversize clothes. He didn’t really mean to do so, but he subconsciously avoided seeing you as anything less than a respectable person. It was partly due to your job, partly because of his own past.

But now, ranking his eyes up your body, he was shameless. There was no way for him to rip his gaze away, and he hated himself for it. But you were so beautiful, more beautiful than anything he had seen in decades. Even though the old-fashioned part of his brain told him that what you were wearing was utterly wrong, he couldn’t help but enjoy the view. A view that was obstructed by an array of bruising littered all over your body. Most of it had, in the weeks you had spent here, turned from angry blue and purple tones into oranges and yellows. Bucky wanted to clench his fists in fury, but instead, he only felt a sting in his heart.

“What do you think?” It was a question that teased, your cheeky self wanting to prompt a reaction from him. In your haze to get dressed up, you had completely forgotten that you were giving him the perfect view of your past. Every bruise, every scar was a punch from Dylan that had either broken the skin or left painful colors. You had gotten used to the constant ache of the injuries, even went to work with them, but Bucky didn’t know any of that. He only knew what he saw.

He nodded, keeping his mouth shut for the sake of not insulting you, wide eyes still taking in every inch of you. Ignoring the injuries was easier than he had hoped, your lingerie quite distracting. The simple black stockings were held up by four strings of a black garter belt under a triangle of almost sheer lace. The lines of your bare stomach lead to the perfect fit of a black bra that held up your breasts in the most delicious way, barely showing the taut circles of your nipples. You knew you looked hot, and that made it all the more enjoyable. And Bucky’s helpless expression didn’t hurt, either.

In a sudden mood to be even more inappropriate, you decided to spin. Bucky ever so quietly gasped as more bruising, more scars were displayed to him, but instead concentrated on the gorgeous view of the curves of your ass, the lines becoming one with the build of the rest of your body. Back arched, shoulders drawn back, a slight s-curve sorting your muscles to be pleasing to any eye, including Bucky’s, you re-aligned his mind.

His heart dropped when something stirred in his body. A feeling that he hadn’t felt in such a long time that he couldn’t even remember is existed, was creeping back again. Bucky was aroused, and with that recognition, came terror.

“Everything okay?” You had noticed the sudden change in his mood, from wonder to fear.

He nodded. “Aren’t you getting kinda cold?” he asked in an attempt to both change the subject and make you put your regular clothes back on, trying desperately to lose the increasing tightness in his groin.

Your jaw quickly closed in a slight pout. There hadn’t really been an actual intention to this, but a twinge in your stomach told you that this wasn’t the reaction you had hoped secretly for. Without a word, you hobbled back to the bathroom, switching sexy for comfortable. Usually, the two were one and the same thing.

:::::

Bucky and you went back to normal after that. He helped you place your belongings around the apartment, stocking away your baking tin and cooking supplies in the kitchen, and arranging your folded clothes next his in the corner of the room that was patiently waiting for a dresser. Finally, you had your own body care supplies back and giddily balanced them on the faucets in the shower. The knowledge that you wouldn’t have to use Bucky’s lonesome soap bar anymore was quite the relief. Some of your things that you couldn’t find a place for stayed in the boxes, including your lingerie. There was no need for you to flaunt that around the place.

After your little decoration session, you sat Bucky down on the mattress with a pack of frozen peas for his jaw, although he claimed he didn’t need it, and went on to cook some early dinner. The usual – some form of noodles paired with some form of sauce – was ready quickly, both of you eager and hungry. When you settled onto the mattress, each with their own portion in hand, you fell into effortless conversation. Bucky, as he always did, complemented your cooking like a true gentleman but, tongue loosened by the delicious food in his mouth, wanted to ask.

“What’s it like, um…” he began, but then cringed, trailing off. He was trying to hint at your profession without actually having to name it, and you did it for him.

“Being a hooker?” It wasn’t a touchy subject per se, if it weren’t for Dylan you loved what you did. But being under his wing, his hands, had just kind of destroyed the whole ordeal for you.

Bucky nodded, silenced by the spaghetti. He didn’t like the wording but you weren’t wrong.

You set your own plate down, nearly finished anyway, and spoke, “it’s really not as bad as it sounds. I like sex, always have, and that job is just a way of making money from it. If it weren’t for Dylan, I’d still be happily going to my clients.” You could see that Bucky didn’t really understand, but you were used to that. Most people would never be able to do what you did.

“Do you, um,” he mumbled, trying to find the right words, “you know… reach your, uh…”

Biting your lip to keep yourself from smiling too much, you placed your hand on his. “It’s okay. Really. I don’t mind talking about the physicality of it.” Only the topic of Dylan made your spine crawl, and the way he was dancing around every specific term ensured you that he wasn’t being judgmental. “I don’t climax most of the time,” you said, “for me, it’s about the client. They’re the one paying. What’s in it for me is rent and groceries.”

“Only that?” Bucky was astounded. “When I got your things, I was surprised you own so little. I kinda thought you’d be rich or something.”

You laughed. Whole-heartedly, because the thoughts of you and being rich never, ever crossed your mind within the same context and the fact that he had that idea made you marvel at the way his brain worked. “Why would you think that?”

Bucky shrugged, his innocent intentions coming through. “You’re so beautiful. I figured a lot of rich men would want to, um, you know.” His statement was utterly honest, and you had the feeling that everything he said was just as much. It just wasn’t the truth.

“Nobody important wants me, I can tell you that.” That was the truth.

He didn’t know what to say to that. To him, you were the most gorgeous person he had ever come to know. He couldn’t really explain it, but after everything bad that had gone on in his life, you were the brightest thing to come from it.

You picked up your almost forgotten fork, and the two of you finished eating in silence. Once you were done, Bucky took both plates to run them under the water. One of you would clean them later, it was an unspoken rule.

Every night always went one of two ways. Either, you were already asleep when he got home, or, rarely, he was there for dinner. When that happened, and it had really been only once or twice, he then went on to the bathroom after. You couldn’t figure out what he did in there, but what you knew was that it took him  _ ages _ and he came back clean, clad in a fresh outfit of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, small droplets of water falling randomly from his washed hair. As he slid onto the mattress next to you, you left enough room for him to comfortably settle down. You were painfully aware that you’d end up sprawled across his chest in some way, but for now, you wanted to show him that you were trying to be respectful.

Tonight, it was Bucky who sought you out. Subconsciously, of course. It would never happen in a waking state. But he had fallen asleep before you, and now he reached out with both arms, pulling your body flush to his chest. You couldn’t deny that you were shocked. This had never happened before and you wouldn’t have seen it coming anyway, but your backside fit against his front perfectly, your bodies formed into each other, bent in the shape of two little s. It was dangerously comfortable, and you instantly became obsessed with the feeling of safety that engulfed you. He warmed you against the unheated vast space of his apartment that yes, you had come to love, but this way, it was like he put your body back together and he didn’t even know it. Needless to say, you fell asleep quickly. His face buried in the crook of your neck, you were sure your hair must have tickled, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Like this, tangled together in the comfort of the mattress, you slept peacefully for hours. It was the first time since forever that you didn’t move, and came to realize that when you woke up in the middle of the night in exactly the same spot. It was eerily quiet, no noise seemed to have pulled you from your slumber. Before you could run your tired mind to find out what had, you felt it. Bucky was, ever so slightly, shyly, rocking his hips, his hard length dragging across the flesh of your ass. From what you could make out, not that you were actively trying to, he was very well endowed, larger than most men you had seen. You automatically wondered how he wasn’t conceited because of it.

As Bucky was rutting, using your body for his pleasure, you twisted your head and weren’t surprised to find him fast asleep. You decided to wake him up. He was sure to panic, feeling embarrassed about what he had done, if you let him continue this.

“Bucky,” you carefully mumbled, fear with the memory about the last time you had tried to shake him awake creeping across your mind, “Bucky.”

With a gentle hand stroking his cheek, he was startled, eyes fluttering open. You gave him a second to gather his thoughts, waiting for him to react. Ready to watch him retreat into his shell, scramble off the bed and into the bathroom, the last thing you expected was for Bucky to look down at where his middle was pressed against yours and burst into tears.

“What–“

His sobbing interrupted any question you could ask, shaking his whole body violently, and your heart ached. Eyes screwed shut, he apologized.

“Bucky, it’s okay,” you said, helpless in trying to help him, “this happens to everybody.”

“Not like this,” he said, breathing heavily, “not to me.”

You turned around against him. Disregarding the unspoken boundaries Bucky had set, you decided to touch him. Running your hands across his face, wiping away the tears, you brushed his long, slightly matted hair from his forehead. Soothing words you instantly forgot were whispered in an attempt to distract him, to help him focus on your voice. And miraculously, it worked. Minutes passed and he began to slow his breathing, keeping it in sync with yours as you told him, until he finally calmed down.

“What’s wrong?” you asked then, because you weren’t satisfied, this time, to only accept his behavior without explanation.

“I was thinking about you,” he confessed after a few more deep breaths, looking at you like he was ready to be slapped across the cheek for his indecency.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” you promised, but Bucky shook his head quickly. You had just shown him what you looked like in lingerie, so maybe this wasn’t coming from nowhere.

“From today,” he said slowly, urgently, “and I remembered all your bruises and stuff. I was dreaming about you and your pain and I got hard and I did  _ this _ .” He nodded down to his groin where he was still somehow half-hard. He must have been incredibly ashamed and you immediately wanted to do something against it.

“Bucky,” you asked carefully, “did you deliberately think about my injuries or where they just, well, there when you dreamt about me in underwear?”

He thought it over. Usually, his thoughts were straight-forward. Over the decades, he had learned to see things as they are immediately, with no time for analyzing on a meta-level during missions. But maybe you were right. “Coincidence,” he admitted, shame somewhat subsiding, if only a little. Still, he had been dreaming about you in nothing but underwear and that was wrong.

“See?” your soft voice said, “there’s nothing wrong with that. You weren’t in control.” You knew Bucky didn’t believe you but you said it anyway. “I make my living off of people being attracted to me to the point they want to pay for sex. I’d say that’s a whole deal more perverse than you having a wet dream.”

He was quiet, then, knowing you were right enough for him not to disagree. On the other hand, he was still hard, couldn’t shake it, really. You had noticed, of course. His length was brushing against your hipbone with every breath he took. To test the waters, you shifted your own hips forward. Bucky let out a strangled moan he tried his best to cage in his chest but couldn’t manage to. It had been literal decades since the last time he had received attention like this and it felt too good to ignore at this point.

“Let me help you with that,” you said, asking him for permission. When he didn’t resist, only stared at you with wide eyes, you slowly ran a hand down his torso, starting where it had been clutching onto his shoulder. However, before your fingers could sneak under the fabric of his sweater, his right hand sternly held the hem in place.

You pulled your own hand back, letting it rest above his layers. “No touching altogether or no touching here?”

Bucky swallowed. “Here.”

“So only over the fabric?”

He nodded. You were too close to his upper body. Still cradled against you, it seemed like he was seeking out the physical contact with you for comfort, perhaps reassurance. It silently told you he wasn’t repulsed by your actions.

The first time you brushed against the hardness straining his sweatpants, Bucky’s entire body shook in a gasp. He hadn’t been expecting it to feel like this. By his reaction, you deduced it wasn’t often that someone touched him like this, although you knew for a fact that physical contact wasn’t on his menu in general. You ran your hand along his length, increasing the pressure as you went. Bucky responded with heavy breathing, fits balled into the sheets, and it only spurred you on further.

With the way his tip seemed to start a fight with the fabric of Bucky’s sweatpants, your fingers threatened to sneak under it to help the cause of his cock.

“Can I?” You were already there, but just a hint of hesitation on his side and you’d pull away instantly. But, a little bit to your surprise, he nodded.

The pants gave away easily, and when the tip of his cock began to poke through, you immediately felt your mouth water. The rest of it didn’t make it any better. Bucky was undeniably large like you had guessed before, but now you could really see how thick and long he was, the gorgeous pink head slightly dampened by his pre-cum. You wanted him in your mouth, like, yesterday.

But for now, because you had decided to take it slow as not to startle Bucky, you wrapped your hand – it didn’t even fit his girth properly – around him and pumped. The man beneath your touch groaned, the deep noise strained against his gritted teeth as you only moved further. Each time you reached his head, you twisted your wrist, before going back down. Within a few movements like this, he was moaning with every exhale, rutting his hips. And then, you couldn’t help it.

You leaned down, and Bucky only managed to choke out a, “what–“ before you gathered him into your mouth, sinking down on him. Years of practice had made you proficient at the act, but you couldn’t lie and say you weren’t struggling to take him all the way down your throat, although you willed yourself to relax around him, trying your best to make him feel good.

Bucky was helpless as you swallowed around him, taking him deeper, moving your head up and down his length. No one had ever done this to him, and the entirely new feeling nearly drove him insane. Part of him, the one that still had some manners, wanted to pull you off him, he was convinced this couldn’t feel good for you, but the other part, the one that ultimately won, simply gathered your hair in his hands to get a better look at you. You caught his eye and he shuddered. Bucky could see the shameless spit dripping from the corners of your mouth, running down his cock, soaking your hands that were wrapped around him. It, by far, was the filthiest thing he had ever witnessed but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He was close.

You held the eye contact, mesmerized by the sheer wonder in his expression, and it made you feel beautiful and appreciated like you always did with him. When you pulled him closer to his climax, he gave in, and threw his head back, involuntarily thrusting his hips into your face in the process. You had seen it coming and followed the movement, allowing him to push himself deeper into the tight hollow of your throat.

He was moaning shamelessly, although you didn’t think he actually knew it. But you relished in the compliment, glad you were making him feel this good. He was undeniably close to the edge, and you worked a little faster, taking him a little deeper, squeezing your hands around him a little tighter to throw him over.

When Bucky finally came, he was bucking his hips, short nails scraping across your skull in the haze to manhandle you the way he wanted, and you didn’t mind in the slightest. He spilled into your mouth with a cry, slightly arching his back. You swallowed the brunt of it, but let the rest run down his length into your hands that jerked him through his orgasm, beginning to slow down.

“Holy cow,” he breathed, a lack of oxygen evident in his heaving chest.

You smiled. “Okay?” It was kind of obvious that he had enjoyed the whole ordeal but a part of you was still scared because this was an entirely new thing in your relationship and it had the power to change the whole dynamic if you let it.

“Okay?” Bucky stared down at you with wide eyes. “That was so much more than okay.”

Your smile broadened. “I’m glad.” When you pulled your hands from him, absentmindedly licking the residue of his climax off your fingers, he watched.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Huh?”

In a moment of bravery, he reached out to wipe a bit of drool from the corner of your bottom lip, before tugging himself back into his pants. “The thing you did,” he said carefully, “with your mouth.”

You tilted your head to the side. “You mean sucking you off?”

He took a moment before he nodded. “I didn’t, uh, I didn’t know…”

“Bucky, I told you,” you cut him off, trying to reassure him, “I do this all the time.”

“No, I–“ He fumbled with the drawstring of his sweats, and you frowned, waiting for him to continue. “I didn’t know that was a thing.”

You sat back on your calves.  _ That _ you hadn’t expected _. _ “You’ve never been given a blowjob before?”

He shook his head and remained silent. Truthfully, he didn’t actually know for sure. He didn’t remember most of his life before the war – or during, that is – but none of it contained anything like what you had just done to him. 

“Bucky, can I ask you something?” You had to know. The inherent question that was on the tip of your tongue you kept to yourself. It’s not like it was any of your business to ask him if he was a virgin. Instead, you asked something different when he gestured for you to go on. “How long have you been alone?” 

Now, like this, Bucky didn’t feel the need to lie for the first time in forever. But the long version of his answer wasn’t something he could just tell you straight on. He wanted to tell you. The whole time he had been with you, you had shown him nothing but trustworthiness, although he would have to ease you into it. For now, he said the only thing he could because it was the shortest way to put it without having to lie, and he kept it like that. “I don’t know.”


End file.
